


So Heavy In Your Arms

by shannonymous



Series: New Again [5]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, Dysphoria, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Period Sex, Polyamory, Tony Stark Has Issues, Trans Character, steve rogers doesnt trust his own boyfriends, trans tony, true love is sex on your period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4012117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannonymous/pseuds/shannonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's body reminds him of who he used to be; Bucky is a terrible shoulder to cry on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Heavy In Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> period sex! really, just more tony love but bucky angst! yis
> 
> also writing a longer piece for this universe, y/n

“He hasn’t gotten out of bed all day,” Tony hears from outside the door. It happens quite often that Steve, for all his efforts, fails to be quiet. Bucky murmurs something intelligible and Tony fights the surge of anxiety in his chest.

He’d kill for a drink.

Steve: “I think we should talk to him.”

An indistinct response.

Steve: “But I’m worried, Buck, he’s in there feelin’ like that all alone.”

Silence.

Steve: "We could at least check in."

“All right,” Tony clearly hears that, and Bucky is the one opening the door right after. “Come on, Stark. Let’s hear it. What’s got you down this time?” Now he’s making himself comfortable on the bed next to Tony. Steve shuffles into the room, hesitant in his movements before settling at the foot of the bed.

“Lose a project? Did someone sue you again?” Bucky jibes, good-natured tone covering well-hidden concern. “Didja run out of booze?”

“Help us help you,” Steve interjects.

A heavy moment hangs between the three of them, suspended in the bated breath. In this time, Tony considers what Bucky said; on the grand scheme of things, all three would be worse than what really has him wrapped up in bed at 2 in the afternoon and just maybe, he might feel a little stupid.

“I still bleed sometimes,” Tony finally mumbles, face pressed against the pillow to muffle his words. He waits for the words to sink in.

Bucky’s question comes unheeded, the thrill of curiosity and hope drowning out the little voice that says well, _maybe you shouldn’t_ — “Are you saying we could knock you up?”

He moves not one muscle as Steve rounds on him, the blonde’s whole demeanor reading shocked, angry, and a little shameful. Tony’s form goes tight and a low sound escapes from the pile of blankets.

“That’s not what I’m here for,” Tony says miserably. “I’m not your broodmare.”

Steve throws a pointed look at Bucky; _you just can’t keep your trap shut, can you?_

“Fuck, hey, that’s not what I meant—“ Bucky starts, but Tony cuts him off, asking: “Steve?”

Steve’s hand slips around Tony’s ankle, “Yeah, Tone?” His thumb rubs against the bone gently.

The man lays it on thick: “Could you maybe go out, grab some junk food? I’m craving ice cream, salty-sweets. Anything that’s terrible for me, get six of it.” Uncertainty flitters over Steve’s face at the request but he ducks his head so the others don’t see. His hand holds fast in its position, anchored to Tony; it’s so hard to pull away and leave him here so vulnerable. The other senses this and kicks at Steve’s hand, eyes rolling in fond exasperation.

“I won’t lose it while you’re gone,” he insists. “I’m not a wilting flower, and Bucky isn’t as broken as you think he is.”

Steve startles, guilt flushing his cheeks red; “I didn’t—“

 “Dear,” Tony chides, “My insides feel like they’re being scooped out with a melon baller. Would you please go to the store for me?” Bucky settles against the headboard, smugly watching Steve acquiesce and reluctantly leave the bed to shrug a jacket on.  

The soldier still looks unsettled as he stands by the door, keys in hand.

“I won’t be long,” he affirms to nobody but himself.

“Okay babe,” Tony urges, “Thank you!”

They wait a full two minutes after Steve's departure before cracking a smile at each other. There will be a time when Tony needs the coddling, gathered up against Steve to be crooned over; but right now, he wants to feel normal. Like nothing’s changed.

Bucky worms his way under the blankets and replaces the heating pad across Tony’s hips with his hand.

“Gonna kiss ya now,” he says, stroking through the hair at his fingertips, “if that’s all right.”

“More than,” Tony encourages, dipping in to catch Bucky’s mouth with his own. They both haven’t shaved, lips rasping against stubble which soon wears their skin raw with the friction. It’s too hot under the pile of blankets, limbs tangled and breath coming _quick hot desperat_ e. But it’s too sweet to stop, and Tony finds himself pressing his palm to the swell of Bucky’s cock.

He’s about to say something eloquently arousing, like _fuck my mouth_ , but he’s yanked from the pleasant headspace and his buzz clears, because Bucky’s own hand is between his thighs, pressing against--

“Mm—don’t,” Tony squirms against wandering fingers, jerking his hips to the side. His heart quickens, panicked. Deep down, he chastises himself; by now, he should trust the warm comfort of Bucky’s thighs bracketing his own and the devotion he can feel in the hesitant metal fingers (it’s the devotion he can see on Steve’s face when the blond worships from his knees).

Rolling to face away, Tony says, “God, don’t do that. I can only imagine what it looks like down there, cause I feel like a stuck pig.” He’s followed as he settles on his side, and Bucky’s mouth finds the back of his neck.

“S’just slick,” Bucky reassures with a grin, “Hell, I've had a lot worse on me, but I heard they got these newfangled bathin’ stalls called showers—“

Tony’s elbow cuts him off mid-sentence, squared in just the right spot to wind him for a moment, “I didn’t miss that—“ and really, he intends to say something witty, but Bucky’s fingers are distractingly light on his hipbone.

“Missed you too, puddin’,” Bucky laughs. Tony goes rigid with incredulity.

“Did we not have the talk about the pet names—“

Now Bucky’s mouth has found that weak spot under his ear and he says, “Come on, Stark. Lighten up, huh? A little blood ain’t ever hurt anybody, and if you can’t tell,” he rolls his hips forward against the warmth of Tony’s thighs, “I don’t mind.”

“James,” Tony protests, but it’s a half-hearted, last-ditch effort and Bucky grins.

“I’ll even wash the sheets myself,” he promises, dipping his hand into the waistband of Tony’s boxers. He pauses, fingertips hesitant, waiting for the sign that he’d done all right by his man. When he’s met with silence, Bucky pulls his fingers back to spread them over the tight muscles of Tony’s abdomen and sighs into his mussed hair.

“Steve’s always covered in blood. We both are. You even come out of that tin suit bloody half the damn time, Tony. How the fuck is it weak that you can get through this? And you—“ he pauses, unsure. “It’s cause you can make life, right? Captain America can’t do that. I can’t. But you can. You're better than... than this. And I just... fuck, I want to make you feel... better. 

“We’ve said it before. We don’t care about who you were. Who you are now? We like 'im just fine.” Bucky swallows, faltering. He’s trying so hard, and thank god Tony can tell, because he’s running out of sentiment.

“Thanks, Barnes,” Tony turns his head to meet Bucky’s mouth, and presses back as he spreads his legs. It takes a few moments of fumbled hands to get the two of them half-undressed; he finds himself pressed on his chest, one leg held in the crook of Bucky’s arm with his t-shirt rucked up under his armpits and briefs hanging around his ankle.

Bucky presses to Tony’s back, lips parted against the curve of his shoulder as his hand finds Tony’s chest. The fingers do not move, but Tony arches into the contact; feeling the life under all that metal is damn near too much, and it draws an impatient sound from his throat. 

“Yeah, sweetheart, I gotcha,” Bucky soothes, one of his thighs slipping eagerly against the wetness between both of Tony’s. The blood makes it hard; it’s wet, but Tony reaches to guide the thick cock into him, panting against the sheets. He feels too tight around the girth of the other’s cock, and it’s been so long since anything but fingers have stretched him, it almost burns.

The weight of the other leaves his back as Bucky props himself on one hand, metal fingers free to find Tony’s cock. Slick with blood, the hand cups the swell and Bucky lets his wrist do the work; slowly, he jerks Tony til he’s hard, rolling digits pulsing in time with quick heartbeats.

“Fuck yeah,” Tony pants, his muscles relaxing enough for Bucky to sink deep. It doesn’t take long, and Bucky swears when he’s buried to the hilt in wet, open heat.

Tony catches the metal hand between his thighs, pressing it to his throat, blood trailing in smears from his groin up to his collarbones. They’ve never done this without Steve, but Tony knows to go pliant in Bucky’s arms, trust his control.

“Want it like this,” and he nearly keens when unyielding fingers fit to the curve of his throat. Bucky uses this leverage to lock Tony in place as he rocks deeper, harder into his pliant warmth. He drives in to the root, ruts there shallowly as he rolls his hips, working his cock against the spot hiding behind the ridge of bone-- to which Tony responds with sharp little punched-out _ah-ah-ah_ s, chest heaving and fingers grasping blindly.

“Such a sweet boycunt y’got for me,” Bucky husks against his throat. He's staring at Tony making all those sounds, crowding in to press his mouth to the parted lips as he drives his hips harder. The plates recalibrate against hot skin, and Tony lets out a choked sound, pleasure spiking sharp; the fingers tighten just a fraction and the sound cuts off.

He’s too busy coming his brains out to notice that Bucky’s gone soft inside of him, but he snaps to attention when he’s suddenly empty.

The whine that breaks out of Tony’s throat is uncharacteristic, but his impatience is not: “No, don’t stop, don’t—Buck--?”

He turns to find the asset staring at red hands, groin smeared with Tony’s slick blood and prick soft between shaking thighs.

It’s a sorry sight.

“Oh babe,” he sighs, reaching in the drawer to find the stash of wet wipes. They don’t much help with the blood, leaving behind the heady scent of iron and Bucky’s fingernails stained pink. Tony reaches to clean the other hand but Bucky jerks away out of reflex, and his stomach sinks.

Tony isn’t the only one who can hate himself.

He lets out a soft breath, handing the napkin over: “Okay.  You clean yourself up, then,” he says before he turns away to slip his briefs on, nose wrinkling at the feeling of cooled blood against his hot skin. He’ll shower away the sticky mess between his thighs once he has the chance; once Bucky Barnes shakes off the asset and they can enjoy being together for once.

With his just-fucked muscles shaking weak, Tony gathers the blankets around the two of them and plasters himself to Bucky’s back. By touch alone, he can feel the distance between them.

“I get it,” he murmurs, pressing wet kisses along the tense line of Bucky’s shoulder. “I have parts of me that I hate too.”

But then the absurd happens, even as he lay there so close to the asset with his fingers anchored in unkempt locks. The other does not relax or go limp in the way he does when Steve talks him down, and for a moment, Tony feels an ugly twist of _not enough._

But Bucky soothes away the panic, despite metal fingers curling into a tight fist, when he says, “You shouldn’t. Hate yourself, I mean. There’s no reason to.”

Tony gets that; sometimes, he can even see himself through their eyes and love what they see just as much—but there are moments when he can’t, and that’s where he gets caught.

He brushes his raw mouth over the scarring of Bucky’s shoulder as he says, “I can’t help it. I’ve never been who I wanted to be, no matter how hard I tried. It ruins you, y’know. To have to make yourself from scratch and still not get it quite right.”

“They made me a killer,” Bucky mutters back, weak. Recognition sparks. It hangs heavy in their shared breath, unsaid, but they linger there. They both know what he’s done, and they can taste the sourness of the unspoken names. They wanted to be normal; sent Steve away so their fragile cracks could be ignored, but even a chip in the glass can spider wildly and shatter the glass if gone untreated. 

A genius and a super soldier, lying here wallowing in misery on bloodied bedsheets because the sex was great (because, for a moment, Bucky thought he lost it). 

There’s a beat between them before Tony’s face cracks into a grin and he laughs outright, rolling onto his back. 

“Look at us," he huffs. "What a fucking pity party we throw, Buck.” 

Bucky almost wants to feed this despondence, let Tony crawl out of this hole alone and leave him behind to wither. There is a physical craving to nurture this pain because he deserves it; but god, it’s so hard to hate anything Tony loves, and so he gives in.

“Fuck you,” he says amicably, and matches Tony’s smile.


End file.
